


Death of me

by DeVereWinterton



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Dirty Thoughts, Episode Related, F/M, Fear, Friendship, Friendship/Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 04:06:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13046142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeVereWinterton/pseuds/DeVereWinterton
Summary: 'Like any human being, of course she had her fears. Naturally she'd been scared once or twice during her lifetime...more often than she could count. More often than she would care to admit to herself. Her 'fear' of arachnids was only the tip of the proverbial iceberg.' Phryne ponders, smuttiness ensues, because of course it does.





	Death of me

**Author's Note:**

> Phryne ponders about quite a few things. I couldn't sleep, so therefore this happened. Set sometime after S03E07 (the tennis one) but before the final episode. It's quite the long haul, and there's no dialogue. Because really, who needs spoken words when you can have chemistry instead?
> 
> Also, I'm new to AO3 so if there's some etiquette I just messed up, please let me know. Went with the Explicit rating, just to be safe rather than sorry. Came here from FF.net because, well, the MFMM-community is enormous and you all appear to be very lovely and talented people, indeed. I've read a lot of wonderful stories and I hope my drabbling will be up to scratch, if that.  
> -DVW

_Our deepest fears are like dragons, guarding our deepest treasure._

\- Rainer Maria Rilke

 

Phryne Fisher prided herself on being a woman of the world. She was a modern woman; independent, resourceful, unbound by the rules and regulations society forced upon most women. She had her own business, ran a comfortable household, owned several vehicles – all of which she was able to drive (or fly) – and had never really felt the need to slow or settle down.

She was a marvel, a paradox; she loved seducing men (and some women), but there was nothing quite like _being_ seduced every now and again. She loved all men, although she would hardly have the time or the strength to bed all of them. Most of them weren't even worth her time. But she preferred the scarred ones by a mile; the ones with a story to tell, the bad eggs, the ones with an edge. They weren't perfect, and neither was she. She had her own scars and stories. She was flawed.

Underneath the feathers, extravagance, French perfume, sultry seduction and confidence, she was aware of the fact that she was human. Very much so, actually. And human beings were not without fault. She knew some people might find her reckless (although she preferred 'adventurous'). She could drive a hard bargain. Apparently, she could be quite stubborn as well, at times. And perhaps she was just a tad bit nosy.

And like any human being, of course she had her fears. Naturally she'd been scared once or twice during her lifetime...more often than she could count. More often than she would care to admit to herself. Her 'fear' of arachnids was only the tip of the proverbial iceberg.

As a child, she had feared the dark, for in the dark the visible became invisible, and vice versa. Her father would come home drunk late at night, fade into the darkness and the extent of his abuse wouldn't come to light until the next morning. When the impending dawn refused to cast any more shadows onto the Fisher household. Being locked up in a dark, stuffy cupboard for hours on end hadn't exactly helped, either.

She felt it was her obligation to live her life to the fullest, and therefore she wasn't too keen on the idea of death. Her own death, in particular. It was a bit of a conundrum, as her job required her to spend more time hanging around the deceased than the average person. Most people probably weren't ecstatic about death, but Phryne could also simply not imagine no longer existing. She didn't think herself immortal but she just loved life and everything it embodied (literally). She had no idea what she'd do if the day were to finally arrive.

Probably not much, considering she'd be dead.

The fear that had threatened to consume her when Murdoch Foyle had taken Jane away had, until recently, been unparalleled. The possibility of irreversibility, had she not stalled both Foyle and Rhodes for as long as she had, still caught her off-guard every once in a while. She had been scared witless, not just for her own life, but mostly for Jane's. Still, somewhere, deep inside the recesses of her being, along with the fear there had been hope and determination. A very small part of her had somehow known it would all be alright. She hadn't had the presence of mind to ponder this at the time, and thank the heavens that it had indeed all worked out in the end.

But nothing compared to the more recent fear that accumulated in her gut whenever she was around Detective Inspector Jack Robinson. Of course this fear was generally accompanied by a flutter of excitement, and it wasn't that she was scared of Jack as a person, per se. She feared the things he represented; stability, rules and regulations, commitment, eternity.

And perhaps the most important fear of all: she was scared of the intensity of her feelings for him.

It was killing her.

Fingering the swallow brooch that had found its way onto most of her ensembles these days, she thought about the badge he'd given her only a few days ago. He never ceased to amaze her. Although the brooch symbolized sentiments of a certain emotional investment, the badge was a different ballgame altogether. He had given her something of _his_. Sure, they'd bestowed presents upon one another once or twice, but never had she received anything this personal in, well, probably most of her life. The badge was something he'd owned ever since he had been a wee child, and he had just handed it over to her, pinning it to her dressing gown as if it were a trivial matter. The look in his eyes had told her otherwise as he'd regarded her, calmly. She thought her heart would beat right out of her chest, the urge to kiss him right there in her hallway completely overwhelming any sense of propriety (not that she cared much for it, anyway). She knew, however, that whenever something was going to happen between them, he would have to be the one to make the first move. After his, albeit slightly drunk, tirade in her parlour not too long ago, she'd never want him to feel like he was just another man in a 'constant parade' of her conquests.

There had, however, been that one kiss, that had been initiated by him. The only kiss they'd shared thus far, and she couldn't quite believe her own desperation, her constant desire to add many more kisses to that single one. To kiss him until she wouldn't be able to discern where she ended and he began. The circumstances had hardly been ideal, or romantic; undercover at Café Réplique, her former lover turned killer on the loose, her (damn it) fear of confronting him after all these years. And then Jack had grabbed her by the back of her head with one of his warm, large hands, cupping it as if it weighed nothing at all, and pressed his lips to hers. She had been shocked, to say the least, and it was quite a feat in and of itself to catch the Honourable Phryne Fisher off-guard. He'd made quick work of prying her lips open, nearly forcing his tongue into her mouth, yet she had felt no disgust at his dominance. This had also been a surprise; the sheer passion with which he'd executed this diversion. He normally appeared to be somewhat sulking, almost prudish in his demeanour. None of this had been present in those seconds during which his tongue found its way into her mouth, meeting her eager muscle. Stroking it firmly, quickly, the promise of something more just waiting on the tip of his tongue, his lips. The taste of him addictive, her pulse quickening as she rapidly lost her focus, completely invested in him.

Looking back now, it made sense to her. Jack wasn't a dominant man during their day to day life, although his presence could be domineering. It thrilled her when he took control of any situation, sheer maleness radiating off of him in waves. She'd always suspected he was somewhat of a 'dark horse' himself, in a more intimate setting, were he to really let himself go. His kiss spoke of a certain male dominance that she found all too arousing. It seemed that, when it came to matters of a more physical nature, she was more than happy to let him take control (if only for a little while), their roles reversing. She found she'd easily given up control of their kiss to him, even though she'd happily reciprocated after mere seconds of stillness. She'd trusted Jack, even back then. He wouldn't hurt her.

It had all been over far too soon, but the memory was still vivid enough to cause a stir within her, to cause heat to rise to her cheeks in the privacy of her boudoir. It made her wonder about the rest of his body in ways that would have left Dot aghast. She had caught a fair glimpse of it at the beach in Queenscliff, on that glorious day when the dour Inspector had been replaced by this unfamiliar Adonis in a bathing costume. Lean body, broad shoulders, strong muscular arms and my word, his shapely, toned thighs. The sparse chest hair peeking out from the neckline of his bathing suit. And if the extra piece of cloth, ensuring his modesty, had been anything to go by... _Well_. Jack Robinson would very likely prove to be the perfect specimen of a man with big _hands_.

Dear _God_ , the times she had spent fantasizing about his cock. What it would look like; his length, his girth, the mushroom shaped head. What it would feel like inside of her mouth, inside of her wet cunt, what she'd like to do to him to bring him pleasure. Lately, whenever she would walk into his office, seeing his brow furrowed in concentration or frustration, it would take all of her self-control not to sink down onto her knees in front of him, undoing the fastening of his trousers, yanking them down along with his smalls to take his hard length into her mouth. Just to release the tension in his body, the turmoil in his mind. And well, she couldn't deny it would also be for her own benefit. She felt confident the sound of his moans and groans would be her own undoing. It would almost put, well, herself to shame. Not that she was ashamed of indulging in the sensual pleasures of life, and one had to tickle oneself every now and again! Both literally and figuratively speaking. But she did realize at this point that this was no ordinary, passing, fleeting fancy or fantasy.

Jack was on her mind all the time. As of late, the only (sometimes unbidden) images that came to mind when lying in bed alone at night (and when had _that_ started happening?) were of his magnificent hands. Those lovely, long, dextrous fingers that would no doubt bring her immeasurable pleasure, reaching places deep within her and stroking her until she would moan in sinful delight. Just a fleeting touch on her skin would be enough to ignite her, her body feeling as though it had been burned, but pleasurably so. His strong jaw line, the way it set when he was determined about something or other. She longed to run her hands across it, scraping it with her nails, soothing it with her tongue...His tongue, sharp and witty; she was fairly certain she could put that mouth of his to good use, what with his inquisitive nature and all that. She could just imagine his head between her thighs as he would pleasure her with his mouth, taking his sweet time, torturing her as she would push her fingers into his hair, undoing any tidyness his pomade had caused. Crushing his head and his shoulders with her thighs, clamping down on his fingers as he would suck on her sensitive bundle of nerves. And speaking of those broad shoulders...She envisioned herself holding onto them for dear life, scratching his back with her manicured nails as he would push her towards that precipice, whispering filthy encouragements into her ear that would make her toes curl, her back arch and would plummet her headfirst into mind-numbing pleasure. She was sure his low rumble would turn into sin itself, his voice pouring over her like honey; thick and sticking to her skin until she'd tremble with desire. She could practically feel his breath stirring in her ear, his answering growl deep and feral as he'd empty himself inside of her waiting body, her internal muscles milking him dry of every last drop of his essence. Him clutching her damp thighs with his large hands, riding high on the waves of his pleasure.

Trembling, sweating, colliding.

She worried about this. The fact that, as of late, her imagination refused to conjure up any other visual stimuli than the dour Inspector during her late night...wanderings. Had her subconscious suddenly decided to become monogamous? The thought scared her immensely; how could she have been unaware of this? Was she so...so... _besotted_ that she had lost track of her own damned feelings? This was not to be borne.

It wasn't all about the physical, though, when it came to thoughts of Jack. Actually, most of it wasn't. Although she was fairly certain that when they finally would come together (she had very little doubt it was still a case of _if_ and leaned more towards _when,_ these days) the act itself would be most stimulating, pleasurable and positively sinful (she would make sure of it). But there was something else there. A strong undercurrent of something far more meaningful. Something that ran as deep as the Pacific Ocean. She worried it wasn't just _his_ heart that ran this deep, this time around.

The fear of being in love. That was a big one.

_Love._ Love in and of itself wasn't a foreign concept to her. She loved her mother, she'd adored her sister (and still loved her with all her being) and the little family she'd managed to create within the safe walls of Wardlow would forever hold a place inside her heart. Sometimes she felt she would burst from all the love she felt for the people who chose to be with her. Not just passing through, but actually _being_ with her. Living her life with her, out of their own accord. But love was also a dangerous thing. It could rip apart souls, families, homes. It could take one to the highest of highs, but also to the absolute lowest of lows. The ones Phryne had become all too well acquainted with. Her father, René...using love as a guise which allowed them to mistreat the ones they 'loved'.

She loved love, yet despised it at the same time.

She wasn't really sure where Jack fit into all of this. He had his own home, left at night after solving a case and never showed up if his presence hadn't been called upon. She didn't even know where he lived. It was silly, really. She was a Lady Detective for crying out loud.

When they hadn't been sleuthing together all that long, it hardly ever bothered her when he left at night. Surely he had a wife to come home to? However, as soon as he'd told her about his upcoming divorce to Rosie, all was fair game as far as she'd been concerned. He was a handsome man, she'd noticed this as soon as she'd set eye on him the first time they'd met in that bathroom, a few years ago now. It wasn't that she'd pulled out the big guns on him right from the get-go. At the time, it had been more of a game to her. Flirting with him, teasing him, testing him.

The stakes had been raised significantly when he'd started to reciprocate, meeting her halfway, upping the ante. The moment he'd asked her if she'd really wanted a Roman soldier she was sure the sudden and overwhelming rush of desire that came over her was bound to make her faint. It didn't help matters that he'd looked so damned enticing and already completely undone, even though the only thing that had really been undone was his top button. Honestly, it had just been madness from there on out.

Sure, she'd taken other men to her bed since that moment, she would've been a fool not to! But the more time went on, the more time she spent with Jack, the more she got to know the man behind the buttons, the less the other men seemed to satisfy.

Most _he_ satisfies, indeed. Whenever he wasn't there, she'd come up with some reason or other to visit the station. She was fairly certain Dot had wondered (and probably figured out) what she'd been up to, inquiring about Hugh, bringing the men lunch at the station, feeding Jack his beloved _gratin_. Over time, the more he was absent, she longed for his presence. She found that she simply ached for his body, but craved him for his mind.

She wanted _him._ Every part of him. Desperately.

She wanted him to be a part of her family. In all of her turmoil, thoughts and diversions she had completely missed out on what was now so very clear to her, the realisation pushed to the forefront of her mind: in her heart, he already _was_ a part of her family. Not just as a colleague or as a friend, but as a fixture. She didn't mean to demean him by use of this term, but it perfectly illustrated the permanent nature of the connection she felt when she was near him. She wanted him to be there, at all times. What was more; she wanted him to remain there.

But then, how? How could she be with him? How could she even want to be with him? She was Phryne Fisher, and she just didn't _do_ relationships.

Did she?

Relationships equalled permanence in her mind, with marriage being the cherry on top of the runaway cake. A relationship meant committing oneself to another person, being with them. Waking up next to them every morning and going to bed together at night. Having meaningful conversations, talking about silly nothings. Sharing passions, encouraging the other to grow and flourish. Heated discussions, then making sweet, long, lazy love or fucking franticly in a haze of lust. The sound of a relationship suddenly didn't seem so bad, which confused her even more.

Jack would never force her into something that she wasn't comfortable with. He didn't want to change a thing about her and loved her all the same. He had never spoken the words out loud but there had been no need. She knew him well enough to read between the lines, that night he'd decided going on without her was better than to spend time with her and never truly being with her in the way he'd wanted them to be. He'd been the confused and conflicted one at the time, unable to merge his feelings for her with the idea of an affair, of a relationship that would very likely not end in marriage. Of them becoming lovers.

Their bond, however, was stronger than any bump in the road. Her stubbornness was probably a hundred times stronger. Jack challenged her. He respected her as an equal, yet still felt the need to protect her from time to time (which she suspected meant _all the time_ ). He wasn't afraid to point out her flaws, or admit his own, the latter albeit grudgingly. He would even go as far as to sometimes throw her own faults into her face, confronting her with her own 'stupidity' or 'recklessness' when she'd, once again, overstepped. She loved their discussions, their arguments, to watch his jaw set, his chest rise and fall with emotions threatening to burst free from their buttoned-up confinement.

She longed to kiss everything better. To tell him he was beautiful, inside and out. To boost his confidence, show him he was cherished and make him feel like he mattered. The problem was that she didn't know _how_.

How would they make it work?

Could they make it work? Not to mention their _work_ , their jobs...

Amidst all of this, the one thing that frightened her the most was her own and sudden fierce determination to make it work regardless, and the accompanying fear that she would ruin everything. She couldn't bear the thought of losing him. She found it would be, for lack of a better term, unbearable. She bit her lower lip, hard, to stop the avalanche of words that threatened to spill forth from her lips. The metallic taste in her mouth did nothing to soothe her racing mind.

Jack chose this particular moment to look up from the checkers board, contemplating his next move. Their eyes met; hers, lost in thought but brought back to reality by the intensity of his stare, his full of wonder and something else entirely. That hint of something deeper, something darker, just lurking beneath the surface of his stern exterior. It called her, beckoned her, like a siren's song. It never failed to make her question everything she knew about the man and made her feel wrong-footed somehow.

She didn't dare break eye contact, instead she chose to breathe it in, savouring it. This moment, the look in his eyes, all of him. She felt her thighs quiver immeasurably, and even though she was able to cover up the small movement, it did nothing to dampen her desire. Her silk underwear had been damp ever since he'd set foot in her parlour that night. She felt hot, overwhelmed and she was suddenly incredibly aroused; she knew it would take very little effort on his part to push her over the edge. A burning flame, threatening to consume her from the inside out. The intensity with which he addressed her made her want to flee, yet she stayed put, her curious nature too stubborn, her feelings too deep, her heart too far gone.

After the beautiful Concetta and even after insignificant Angela Lombard and her wandering paws...she realised she didn't want to share him with anyone. She didn't even feel like sharing herself with anyone else at this point in her life. And yes, alright, damn and blast, she had been jealous. Jealous, because he was giving another woman his undivided attention (and she guessed, more than just that). Jealous, because another woman was giving him her undivided attention. _And_ the opportunity to take off her dress. She knew her jealousy had been completely uncalled for, in both cases, as she had no right to claim him as her own. Not yet, anyway. She'd been with many men and not once had he outright told her he'd had enough. She'd known though, when he'd stood there in her parlour, as unbalanced as she'd ever seen him, pouring his heart out to her. How he told her he'd never be 'one of them', even if she wanted him to be.

But she didn't want him to be one of many. She wanted him to be the _only_ one out of many. She knew one thing, and she knew it well. It terrified her beyond reason to admit it, but there was no other way. She felt as though her skin would burst from the invisible seams if she were to continue on, denying her true feelings.

She _loved_ him. Not just as a friend, but as a lover. More than that, even. As an equal, as a partner. As a man. _Her_ man. She loved him in the most profound way a woman could possibly love a man.

Without breaking eye contact, Jack suddenly took one of his pieces, wiped three of hers off of the board in the process when crossing it until he reached her side. He took a sip of his whisky, his slightly raised eyebrow suggesting her next move should be to crown him. Daring her to do more than just that. Jack wasn't a man of grand gestures, instead he preferred to show her his affection in small ways, and she reckoned if ever there was going to be a first move, the burning look in his eyes was it. Licking his lips ever so subtly as he set his glass upon the table, next to the board, his eyes dark with what she hoped was the desire that was mirrored in her own eyes.

She was _in love_ with Jack Robinson.

It was an enormous risk to love him. Not because he wouldn't treat her with the utmost respect, love and kindness that was Jack, but because she would risk both of their hearts in the process. Could she live with herself, knowing this?

Then again, what was life if not one big adventure? A game of chance? Risks, both known and unknown, were lurking at every street corner. She witnessed it daily, dealing with crime. She smiled at him then, consumed by her love for him and positively glowing with it, no longer feeling the need to hide it. She wasn't even sure if she'd ever managed to hide her affection from him. He'd made the first move, the second one was hers. And let it never be said that Phryne Fisher would let an opportunity like this go to waste. Taking a final sip of her whisky and setting down her glass, she rose from the chaise longue, her eyes hot on his, smouldering, begging him to understand the enormity of what she was experiencing. She slowly advanced on him, her body thrumming, passing the table, the checkers board suddenly forgotten. He swallowed, parting his lips, his jaw going slack, his Adam's apple bobbing. His large hands tightened around his knees and she wished they were on her body. His heated gaze made her muscles clench in aroused anticipation. He wanted her, he _loved_ her, and it was enough to nearly undo her.

She stood in front of him now, their knees but a breath away from touching.

" _Phryne_..." A choked sound, soft and hoarse. His voice so deep and filled with so much promise, she thought she would come on the spot. His knuckles turned white with the barely concealed need to touch her, to feel the material of her beaded dress underneath his fingertips. To move upwards, touching her fleetingly, to grab a hold of her hips, her arse cheeks. Kneading them, grinding himself into her wet heat until they would both be out of breath with want. Mad with desire.

For all the murders they'd solved together, for all the times her life had been in danger, for all of her doubts, insecurities and fears, Phryne Fisher was absolutely certain about one more thing in her life: this man would be the bloody death of her.

She grabbed one of his hands and held it between her own, reverently.

But what a way to go.


End file.
